


Lean On Me

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pacific Theatre of war, Soldiers, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Private Simon Snow saves Corporal Basilton Pitch's life during an ambush. When Simon is hit by enemy fire, Baz is the one who has to patch him up.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	Lean On Me

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for Carry On Through the Ages 2020! Inspired by my previous obsession with HBO's _The Pacific_ (because Joe Mazzello), this fic is loosely based on the Pacific Theatre of War, and in specific, a battle in 1940s British Malaya.
> 
> **Note:** There is one use of a period-typical racial slur in reference to Japanese soldiers. I do not condone the use of such terms then or now, and use it only because of its prevalence in conversation between men in the military during this time period.

“This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Corporal Basilton Pitch murmured, watching in horrified fascination as Private Snow shovelled unheated bully beef into his mouth using a brick-like biscuit as a sort of spoon, washing each bite down with a sip of instant tea. “He doesn’t even look like he hates the stuff.”

“Baz, you best finish that before Snow sees you’ve still got some,” Private Grimm suggested, tapping his friend’s wrist. Baz tightened his grip on the bar of bitter chocolate clutched in his hand. 

“He can have it after he crawls over my rotting corpse,” Baz sneered, meeting Snow’s blue eyes as he stared the man down. Having been too focused on his food to be eavesdropping, Snow glanced around, sure that Corporal Pitch must be glaring at someone else. 

“Alright, sir?” Snow asked through a mouthful of crunched-up biscuit. Crumbs dotted the front of his green-brown blouse, which was already stained with spilt coffee and dried mud. Compared to Corporal Pitch, the man was a mess. 

“Just supervising, Snow,” Baz clarified, “Making sure you don’t choke on your dinner.” 

“Oh, sod off,” Snow huffed under his breath, tossing his now-empty ration tin aside. 

The entire platoon had stopped for a break along the dirt road, using the few minutes of solitude they’d been afforded in the last 24 hours or so to scarf down some dinner. The pop of gunshots and the loud cracking of mortar rounds exploding miles away had become background noise by now for the more seasoned infantrymen, leaving only a few green soldiers to startle every time a little bird moved in the thick jungle brush lining the road. 

Simon pulled a folded letter and a tattered photo from the pocket of his blouse, so that he might read the note he’d received from his girlfriend one more time. The first six read-throughs hadn’t quite solidified the message in his mind, but perhaps this time would do the trick. 

To sum things up, Agatha — who Simon had been with since he was fifteen — had sent him a _Dear John_ letter. She was breaking things off after three years together without much of an explanation, except that she thought they were best just being friends. This had come as a genuine surprise to Simon, who had chosen not to ask for her hand in case he was killed in action while overseas. 

He held the photograph of her beside the letter. Agatha’s flaxen hair was pinned in two perfect victory rolls. The pearl necklace that had been her grandmother’s rested delicately against her throat above the shallow v-neck of her blouse. The photo was black and white, but Simon distinctly recalled the blouse being a pale pink. He had liked to see her wear it because it brought out the colour in her cheeks. 

“Who’s that, your sister?” Baz remarked snidely, looming above him. Simon quickly stuffed the photo and the tear-stained letter back into his pocket. He wasn’t interested in sharing that part of his life with anyone else, especially Corporal Pitch, who was the head of his section of riflemen. 

“None of your business,” Simon growled, shifting a stone back and forth between his feet. He was seated on the edge of the road facing the ditch with his legs stretched out in front of him. 

“She’s very pretty,” Baz continued, ignoring the warning in Simon’s voice. “Would you mind passing along her address? I’d do well with a lovely thing like that to write home to.” 

“Shut up,” Simon hissed, his voice deadly quiet. Pitch froze in place, slowly turning his gaze down towards the man sitting at his feet. 

“What did you say?” Baz inquired coolly, crouching down so that he was at eye-level with Simon. It was a bit disconcerting, being so close to the the freckle-faced man he’d been carefully avoiding being alone with since they met. Simon’s freckles stood out against his golden-brown skin, his tan only made deeper by the hot Pacific sun beating down on the platoon day in and day out. 

“I said, _shut up,_ ” Simon repeated, fearlessly meeting Baz’s gaze. 

“I am your superior officer, Private Snow,” Baz spat through gritted teeth, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. “If you think you can speak to me that way—“ 

Something moved at the edge of the tree line down the road, immediately catching Simon’s attention. Baz was about to reprimand him for not paying attention while receiving a reprimand when Simon’s arms darted out and grabbed him around the shoulders, hauling him forward, down the slant of the ditch. 

“Get down!” Simon shouted as he snatched up his rifle. “Enemies to the east, 20 metres!” Men hit the ground and crawled towards the ditch, ducking their heads as bullets began to fly. 

Baz lay on his belly in the grass, too grateful for Simon’s quick thinking to berate the man for the graceless way in which he’d yanked him to safety. Dazed, he watched for a moment as Simon tugged on his helmet, inched his way up the side of the ditch with the butt of his gun tucked against his shoulder, and began responding to enemy fire. 

“Baz, your rifle!” Dev's voice called out among the din. Baz glanced to his right, where he had been standing before going to pick on Snow, and saw that his weapon was within reach. His helmet was already on, strapped tightly beneath his chin. 

“A dozen Nips straight ahead!” the sergeant shouted down the line, followed by something about grenades that Baz couldn’t quite make out. He matched Simon’s prone position and tried to get a glimpse of the approaching enemy without exposing himself too much. The ground trembled as a mortar burst down the road, but it was far enough away so as not to kick soil up into his face. 

A pause in oncoming fire as the enemy reloaded their guns provided an opportunity for Simon to peak his head up out of the ditch to get a better look at the situation before them. He recoiled as an enemy soldier sprinted out of the jungle straight ahead, the barrel of his gun aimed at Simon’s forehead. Thankfully, he managed to shoot off a round that caught the man in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards into the ditch on the opposite side of the road with the force of the shot. The man did not reappear, so Baz figured that the lucky shot must have incapacitated him. 

It was only another minute or two before the sergeant called for the group to hold fire. With ringing ears, Baz raised himself up on his elbows, counting to ensure all eight men under his command were still breathing. 

“Uh, sir…” Simon spoke shakily, his body still pressed to the ground. He was staring at the palm of his right hand, which was sticky with blood. 

“What is it, Snow?” Baz asked, his attention on Private Kelly across the road, who had crawled beneath one of the Jeeps in an attempt to find cover. The ginger youth gave Baz a wobbly thumbs-up. 

“Corporal Pitch,” Simon tried again, “Could you just—” 

“What is it?” Baz snapped, whipping his head towards Private Snow. Simon had rolled over onto his back so that Baz might see the tear in the left sleeve of his blouse, just below his shoulder, where blood was blooming through the fabric. 

“I think I’m hit,” Simon choked out, wincing at the pain that came with any movement of his arm. “Just grazed me, though.” Sure enough, when Baz slipped a finger into the tear and pulled the fabric out of the way, he found a long, shallow divot cut into the flesh of Simon’s upper arm. 

“Medic!” Baz shouted, panicked at the sight of the injury. He’d seen plenty of terrible wounds since he’d joined up with the army, but this particular wound distressed him more than it ought to have, simply by virtue of having been inflicted upon Simon Snow. 

“S’not so bad,” Simon assured him, though the pallor of his skin and the quiver in his voice told differently. “Lucky it’s not worse, really.” Baz assisted him up into a seated position and offered gentle words of comfort as they waited for the platoon medic to arrive. Someone else had been injured further up the road, so they had to wait a few minutes. 

“How are you doing?” Baz inquired, his brow furrowed with concern, having noticed a change in Simon’s condition. “You’re breathing a bit fast, don’t you think?” 

“I think…I think I killed that bloke,” Simon whispered, glancing over at Baz. “Oh my god, I fucking _murdered_ someone.” 

“Snow, you didn’t murder him. You shot him to save your own life,” Baz assured him, “It had to be done, trust me.” His tone was sincere, but did little to assuage Simon’s distress. 

“I’ve killed someone,” Simon repeated frantically. His whole body was trembling, and his eyes were wide with horror at what he’d done. “I’ve killed someone.” Not sure what else to do at this point, Baz knelt in front of Simon and took his face in his hands. A day’s worth of stubble scratched at his palms, an observation he tucked away in the back of his mind for later consideration. 

“Hey, look at me,” he instructed, leaning his forehead against Simon’s. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to pass out if you carry on like this.” He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled a cool breath against Simon’s sweat-beaded skin. 

It took a minute for Simon to slow his breathing to the rate Baz was modelling, but in no time at all, he had settled substantially. When Baz tried to take his hands back, Simon grabbed his wrists and held them tightly in place. 

“Don’t leave,” Simon implored tearily. “Please don’t leave me alone.” 

“You’re going to be just fine,” Baz promised, though his brain — well-known for overthinking every little thing — jumped immediately to the (unlikely) possibility that Simon might bleed to death, or that his wound might become horribly infected. The medic would know best how to treat it, he tried to reassure himself. And at the thought of the medic, he realized that in his frazzled state, he had completely forgotten a vital aspect of treating bleeding wounds. 

“We should put pressure on this,” he blurted out, gesturing toward’s Simon’s arm. “Don’t want you losing more blood than you already have.” Simon nodded, but his vacant stare was evidence enough of his inability to comprehend Baz’s words. 

Clenching his teeth, Baz freed one wrist from Simon’s clutches and set his hand against the man’s arm, right over the bleeding wound. The application of pressure elicited a sharp cry from Simon, but Baz held tight, knowing that staunching the bleeding was more important than preventing pain just now. 

When the medic finally arrived, he instructed Simon to lie back, his arm naturally elevated above the level of his heart with the incline of the ditch. The man pulled from his bag a little silver tube with a clear plastic cap, which he removed to reveal a needle about half an inch long. This he inserted into the skin of Simon’s belly at a 45-degree angle before squeezing the contents of the tube through the needle. The pain in Simon’s arm was bad enough that he didn’t even notice the pinch. 

“Morphine,” the medic briefly explained to Baz, who was still pressing his palm to Simon’s arm. “This’ll tide him over for now. Should be about half an hour before it takes full effect. Stay with him until then, make sure he’s breathing at least 12 times per minute.” He removed the needle from the tube and stashed it in a tin box in his medical kit for safekeeping. After handing Baz an envelope of sulfa powder, he said, “I presume you can handle the rest, Corporal?” The medic raised an eyebrow at Baz’s blank expression, but pulled a small burlap bag from Simon’s left hip pocket in explanation. 

“Y-yes, of course,” Baz stammered, accepting the field dressing kit with his free hand. The medic nodded primly before continuing on down the line in search of injured soldiers. 

“Sir?” Simon murmured, turning towards his dark-haired companion. His head lolled comically on his neck as though it were made of jelly — likely an effect of the morphine. 

“Yes?” Baz asked wearily. 

“I think I’m gonna have to take my shirt off,” Simon told him. “Need a bandage for this arm, don’t y’think?” 

“Right, of course,” Baz agreed, his voice sounding distant as he realized that Simon — who he found startlingly attractive — was about to be all sweaty and shirtless in front of him. “Go ahead then.” 

“Uh, my arm…” Simon reminded him, smiling in amusement. “Sorry, Corporal, you’re gonna have to help me out here.” 

_Fucking hell,_ Baz thought to himself as he slowly removed his hand, sticky with blood, from Simon’s arm. After wiping his hand off on the grass, he set to unbuttoning Simon’s sweat-soaked blouse, sincerely hoping that the man wouldn’t notice how shaky his hands were. In reality, Simon wasn’t in a state to be noticing much of anything; the morphine was making him a bit loopy. 

When all the buttons were undone, Simon leaned forward into Baz’s space and rested his forehead against his shoulder while Baz shimmied the sleeve down his arm. Baz’s heart fluttered in his chest at the intimacy of it all. He picked up the envelope the medic had given him and read the instructions printed on it. 

“Whazzat?” Simon inquired, blinking sleepily. Baz held up the envelope of sulfa powder and gave it a shake so that the powder rattled inside. 

“Keeps your wound from getting infected,” Baz told him, sliding a finger beneath the seal to break it. “Not sure if this will sting or not, but just in case, get your tongue out of the way so you don’t accidentally bite it.” Simon complied obediently, never once flinching as Baz powdered and dressed his wound. 

“Thanks, mate,” he mumbled appreciatively once his shirt had been readjusted and buttoned up again. 

“Snow, I’m not your ‘mate’,” Baz corrected gently. “I’m Corporal Pitch, remember?” 

“You’re awfully cute, Corp’ral,” Simon said with a giggle. Baz’s cheeks flushed red at the compliment. 

“Well, er—that should do it,” he said loudly, in case anyone nearby had heard Simon's comment. “All patched up, Private Snow.” 

As he regarded Simon, he thought back on how the man had probably saved his life not even an hour ago. Maybe this had been the universe’s way of letting him pay the man back for his heroics. 

“You’ll stay with me?” Simon asked. 

“Yes, Snow,” Baz snorted, rolling his eyes. Even if the medic hadn't instructed him to do so, there was no way he was abandoning Simon in this state. “Now, close your eyes. You need to rest and keep that arm still.” 

“Don’t forget about me, Baz,” Simon murmured as his eyelids fluttered shut. 

“Simon, you silly man,” Baz murmured under his breath, watching the gentle chest rise and fall of Simon's chest, “How could I ever forget about _you_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Have I written a "Baz healing Simon's wounds" fic before? Yes. Will I probably do it again at some point because it makes my heart explode? Also yes.


End file.
